Murder on the Oceanic

by Conrad Allen

  He abandoned his game and looked shrewdly across at Dillman.

  “I’m told you have a good record as a ship’s detective,” he said.

  “I like to think so.”

  “Prove it.”

  “With your help,” said Dillman, “I intend to do so.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “The names of those who came in here for drinks yesterday.”

  “Right here.” Morgan slid a piece of headed stationery across the table to him. “As you’ll see, I’ve crossed two names off the list.”

  “My partner and the Honorable Jonathan Killick.”

  “They came together. I can’t believe that Miss Masefield would bring a thief and murderer into my circle. Besides, I know the young man socially. I can vouch for him.”

  “I’m afraid that I can’t,” said Dillman, coolly. “It might interest you to know that he secured an invitation for Miss Masefield without having the courtesy to mention it to her. She agreed to come here on the false assumption that you had requested her company.”

  “Had I been aware of her presence on the ship,” said Morgan with a half smile, “I might certainly have done that.” His voice hardened. “If I’d known that she was really a detective, of course, I’d have had second thoughts.”

  “The point is that Killick tricked her into letting him escort her.”

  “All’s fair in love and business.”

  “You approve?”

  “It’s the way of the world, Mr. Dillman.”

  “I see that you’ve put a star next to one name,” observed the other, checking the list. “Dominique Cadine.”

  “Correct.”

  “Was that because she was not invited?”

  “It was, actually. How did you guess?”

  “I already knew,” said Dillman. “The young lady is traveling with Abednego Thomas, the artist, and his wife. Dominique is his model.”

  “I admire his taste, though I abhor his paintings.”

  “I dined with the three of them last night. Dominique is gregarious. When she heard that there was a party and the opportunity of meeting you, she couldn’t resist the temptation to sneak in.”

  “What was she after — free champagne or a sighting of me?”

  “Both, I suspect, Mr. Morgan, but you were the main attraction. There’s no equivocation about that. Your renown spread to France years ago. As in America, you’re seen there as the Napoleon of Wall Street.”

  “I’m not sure that I like that nickname.”

  “It’s meant as a compliment.”

  “Napoleon was defeated. He died in exile.”

  “But at his peak, he ruled an empire.”

  “By force of arms,” said Morgan, drily. “My empire is based on sound economics. That’s why it’s grown and grown.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s had to be defended by force at times — and so have you, sir. Is it true that Mr. Riedel possessed a firearm?”

  Morgan was noncommittal. “Why do you say that?”

  “My partner got the impression that he was carrying a weapon.”

  “He was a policeman. Old habits die hard.”

  “I think that there was another reason.”

  “Howard was employed to protect my art collection.”

  “And to guard you, sir,” said Dillman. “That was his major task. May I ask if you’ve ever had death threats?”

  “That’s a private matter.”

  “Not where a murder is concerned. It’s very relevant. Hasn’t it occurred to you that, if you’d been here last night in place of Mr. Riedel, then you might have been the victim?”

  Morgan pulled on his cigar. “It crossed my mind.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “The only thing I’m worried about is catching the killer.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Dillman told him. “When I searched the body, there was no weapon on Mr. Riedel. It was stolen along with everything else. The man we’re after is armed and dangerous. My belief is that he had a personal motive to commit murder. So I must ask you again, Mr. Morgan. Have there been any death threats?”

  “People in my position always get lunatics sounding off at them.”

  “In what way?”

  “They scream and shout at me with impotent rage. I’m a rich man, Mr. Dillman. I inspire envy. I get all kinds of poison-pen letters.”

  “Can you give me a specific example, sir?”

  “A while back — one, maybe two years ago — some maniac wrote that he’d eliminate New York’s high financiers, trust magnates, and trust builders. All three hats fit me. We were going to ‘pass out of the world without anyone suspecting foul play.’ Those were the exact words.”

  “What did you do with the letter?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to see it. My son, Jack, passed it on to the New York police commissioner along with others like it. He tried to keep all that nonsense from bothering me.”

  “I’m not sure that it was nonsense,” argued Dillman. “You’re the nearest thing that America has to a central bank. It isn’t just the have-nots who resent your power and position. There must be jealous rivals, political opponents, and foreign interests that would profit from your death. The question is — would they take steps to bring it about?”

  “I’m a survivor, Mr. Dillman. Always have been.”

  “But you made lots of enemies along the way.”

  “I was never one to court popularity.”

  “Some of the press have mounted strong campaigns against you,” said Dillman. “When I was in New York last month, I saw you on the front cover of Puck magazine. You were embracing what looked like the whole financial district. The caption was MILLION-DOLLAR MERGER.”

  Morgan grunted. “I saw that stupid cartoon. Poor likeness of me, I thought. They had me reaching out for some scrawny kid who was putting a dime into a piggy bank. There was dollar sign on my cuff link.” He took a last puff of his cigar then ground it out in the ashtray. “Don’t they realize how many jobs I’ve created over the years? Can’t they see how much stability I brought to volatile markets?”

  “All that some people see is a hate figure, Mr. Morgan. One of those people was in this cabin last night.”

  “Then why didn’t he wait until I came back here?”

  “I have a theory about that,” said Dillman, reflectively. “The killer wanted you to suffer and there were two ways of doing that. One was to deprive you of the services of Howard Riedel in the most dramatic fashion. The other was to steal something that you cherished deeply. If you’d been the murder victim, you’d have been spared the anguish that someone is so eager to inflict on you.”

  “Oh, there’s been anguish all right,” admitted Morgan. “Lots.”

  “I’ve got another hunch.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Riedel was not only killed so that you might be spared. He has an enemy of his own — someone with a grudge that drove him to cut the man’s throat. Well,” Dillman reminded him, “you found the body. That was a vicious attack on a man in no position to defend himself.”

  “It brings us back to the crucial question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How did the villain get in here in the first place?”

  “I’ve thought about that. The lock wasn’t forced, which means that he either obtained a master key somehow …”

  “Or?”

  “Mr. Riedel unwittingly let him in. And by the way,” Dillman went on, “I say ‘him’ because I’m convinced that the murder was the work of a man. That rules out Dominique Cadine, and I’ve other reasons for removing her name from any list of suspects. It’s not inconceivable, however, that the killer’s accomplice was a woman.”

  “Accomplice?”

  “Somebody would have acted as a lookout, sir. A sizable haul was taken from here. The thief wouldn’t have left until he was certain that the coast was clear. We’re looking for at least two people.”

  “One of whom
carries a knife.”

  “And a gun.”

  Morgan became pensive. He looked down at the cards as if seeking solace. His forehead was corrugated, his jowls heavy, his nose as unsightly as ever. He was a man who had weathered endless crises because he had always been able to buy his way out of them. Money was of no use in the present emergency. He had to rely on George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield.

  “Do you know much about business, Mr. Dillman?” Morgan asked.

  “Only what I learned from my father.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That I didn’t really belong in such a world, I guess.”

  “There are certain cardinal rules.”

  “Beat the other guy to the draw?” suggested Dillman.

  “That, too, naturally. But the one I was going to cite is even simpler. Markets hate uncertainty. To maintain a healthy flow of capital, you have to impose structure and confidence.”

  “Your career has been living proof of that, sir.”

  “I’ve been through the fires of hell,” said Morgan proudly. “I’ve seen wars, financial crashes, hostile takeovers, panics, and other disruptions and I was always in a position to help. I restored certainty.”

  “You can’t do that here, sir.”

  “I’m hoping that you can, Mr. Dillman. The Oceanic is a microcosm of the money market. If the truth of what happened in here ever got out, we’d have mass hysteria on board. Dabble in business just this once and give us some control and direction.” He searched Dillman’s eyes. “Get out there and catch whoever is responsible for all this turbulence.”

  Genevieve Masefield greeted the latest news with irritation and dismay.

  “Not another one, Lester.”

  “Another two, I’m afraid.”

  “Both women?”

  “One woman, one man this time,” said the purser. “Miss Florence Stiller, an American journalist, and Oskar Halberg.”

  “The couturier?” asked Genevieve.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Most women have heard of Oskar Halberg. He’s one of America’s most notable dress designers. I’ve drooled over photographs of his creations many times.”

  “Only drooled?”

  “My income doesn’t permit me to do anything else, I’m afraid.”

  “Find his billfold for him and he may slip you a few evening gowns by way of thanks,” said Hembrow. “At some stage of the evening, he was the victim of a pickpocket.”

  “Does he know when the billfold was taken?”

  “No, Genevieve. He’d drunk rather a lot last night and didn’t even notice that it was gone until he went back to his cabin. Halberg joined us at Cherbourg with a clutch of other people in the same business.”

  “They’d been to see the latest Paris fashions, probably.”

  “You’ll find him in cabin number forty. Oddly enough, that’s only two doors away from Florence Stiller and her sister. They’re in number thirty-eight. Nice ladies.”

  “George knows them.”

  “Really?”

  “They dined at the same table last night,” she said. “Not that they had much to say to him. They were too busy worshipping at the feet of Abednego Thomas. George spoke well of them.”

  “Miss Stiller was relieved of some jewelry.”

  “From her cabin?”

  “Yes,” replied Hembrow. “The theft didn’t come to light until she took off the necklace she’d been wearing at dinner. Her sister, Vane, travels with very little jewelry so there was nothing of hers left in the cabin to be stolen.”

  “I daresay she was upset on her sister’s behalf, though.”

  “Yes, Genevieve. You’ll find them very pleasant to deal with and very contrite. They know that a jewelry box should have been stored in a safe. Florence Stiller, you’ll be relieved to hear, is no Mrs. Farrant.”

  “What about Halberg?”

  “He was a little more theatrical.”

  “You mean that he huffed and puffed?”

  “Well,” said Hembrow, “he put on a bravura performance but it was all for show. He blamed me for allowing a pickpocket on board the ship. What am I supposed to do — stand at the gangplank and ask everyone about their criminal record before I let them embark?”

  “Did you manage to calm him down?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Then I’ll tackle him first.” Genevieve sighed. “I was hoping to give George a hand instead of taking on two more cases of my own. I know that the victims are upset at the thefts but they can’t really compete with a murder and the disappearance of items from a priceless art collection.”

  “Could there be a connection, do you think?”

  “Between what?”

  “All the crimes so far committed.”

  “I doubt it, Lester. A woman stole Mrs. Farrant’s diamond earrings, that much is clear. No man would venture into the ladies’ cloakroom. It was a spur of the moment crime,” she said. “So, I suspect, were the other two thefts. Someone saw a chance and struck.”

  “Isn’t that what happened in Mr. Morgan’s stateroom?”

  “No, that was calculated. George thinks that it may even have been planned on the voyage to Europe. From the moment he stepped aboard the Oceanic again, Howard Riedel was a marked man. And,” said Genevieve, “his killer knew exactly what he wanted to steal.”

  “Over half a million dollars’ worth of Mr. Morgan’s property.”

  “That’s another reason to separate the crimes. Why would anyone who’d just made off with all that loot bother with petty theft?”

  “It’s not petty to Oskar Halberg.”

  “Nor to Florence Stiller. But you see what I mean?”

  “I do, Genevieve.”

  “George will have to manage without me for a little while.”

  “I’ll warn him of that. He’s still tied up with Mr. Morgan.”

  She sighed. “That’s another little treat I have to come.”

  “What is?”

  “Talking to J. P. Morgan now that he knows who I really am. I can’t say that I’m looking forward to that. He’ll feel that I deceived him.”

  “Solve the crime and he’ll forgive you anything.”

  “I’m not sure about that, Lester.”

  “The same goes for Oskar Halberg and Florence Stiller. When you catch the thief and recover their property, they’ll eat out of your hand.”

  “What about Hilda Farrant?”

  He laughed. “She’s more likely to bite your hand off.”

  ———

  Hilda Farrant handed the letter over to Ethan Boyd and he read the neat calligraphy. When he had finished, he passed it on to his wife. The three of them were sitting together in the lounge that morning and Mrs. Farrant was still simmering with rage.

  “What do you think, Mr. Boyd?” she asked.

  “I think it will make them sit up and blink when they read it. Most people in your situation would say that they were going to complain, but not actually get around to doing it. You’ve taken action,” said Boyd, “and I admire you for it. Don’t you, Rosalie?”

  “Well, yes,” said his wife timidly, giving the letter back to the other woman, “but I did feel that it was too strongly worded.”

  “That’s what I liked about it.”

  “You wouldn’t let me write anything like this, Ethan.”

  “You wouldn’t be capable of it,” he said fondly. “You’re too kind and forgiving. When your purse went astray, I more or less had to make you report the fact to Mr. Hembrow.”

  “Don’t mention that man,” snapped Mrs. Farrant.

  “Why not?”

  “I found him charming,” said Rosalie Boyd.

  “Well, he wasn’t very charming to me,” said Mrs. Farrant. “He came out with a battery of excuses and even had the gall to suggest that I was partly to blame for leaving my property unguarded. Then he palmed me off on Miss Masefield.” She held up her letter. “As I emphasize in this, I expect the personal s
upervision of the purser. How can a young woman like Miss Masefield solve a crime?”

  “Rosalie thought her very efficient,” said Boyd.

  “Yes,” added his wife. “She asked some very searching questions. It was obvious that she’s done this kind of thing before. I felt such a fool when I discovered that I’d mislaid my purse in the library.”

  “The worst of it is that you wasted Miss Masefield’s time. She must have many other commitments on board. You took her away from them. She could have been hunting for Mrs. Farrant’s earrings, for instance.”

  “Oh, I do apologize, Mrs. Farrant. Don’t be too harsh on me.”

  “You made an honest mistake,” said the older woman tolerantly. “The purser, on the other hand, did not. He fobbed me off on a ship’s detective who is far too young and inexperienced to do the job properly.”

  “I think you should give her the benefit of the doubt,” said Rosalie.

  “So do I,” agreed Boyd. “Never judge by appearances. You can easily be misled. When I managed a bank in Manhattan, we had a problem with embezzlement and hired a Pinkerton agent to find the culprit. They sent an attractive young woman whom nobody would have suspected of being a detective. I pretended to employ her in a secretarial capacity and she solved the crime within a week.”

  His wife nodded. “There’s another point, Ethan. The White Star Line wouldn’t hire someone who couldn’t do the job. It has a reputation to maintain.”

  “I think it’s been besmirched by the theft of my earrings,” said Mrs. Farrant, still obsessively self-centered. “I made that very point in my opening paragraph. And the letter will go to the managing director of the shipping line, not to anyone on board this ship. Always protest to the person who is in charge.”

  “You may yet have to tear that letter up,” said Rosalie. “Miss Masefield still has days in which to find your stolen property.” She turned to her husband. “Do you remember those people we met on the Adriatic?”